


Your Lips, Your Lips (I Could Kiss Them All Day if You'd Let Me)

by cirnelle



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: 5+1, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Slow Burn, a bit cracky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 21:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9680669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cirnelle/pseuds/cirnelle
Summary: Five times Illya and Napoleon kissed in the name of U.N.C.L.E., and the one time they finally took some initiative.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ksturf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ksturf/gifts), [atributetotheclassicmovies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atributetotheclassicmovies/gifts).



> Dedicated to ksturf and atributetotheclassicmovies because they are awesome ♥

 

 

1.

Napoleon Solo, sitting on a roughly-hewn stone bench with his head in his hands, looked up with a start as a familiar figure strode into view at the barred door of the cell he was locked in.

“I see the retrieval went well,” his partner said dryly, peering in through the bars.

“Illya!” exclaimed Napoleon happily. He beamed at his partner, unbothered by Illya’s forbidding expression. “The retrieval went quite well, actually. I have the microdot on me right now. I just – ” and here he paused to look around the stone cell, “ – hit a small snag on the way out.”

“So I see,” replied Illya, eyebrow raised.

“Well,” Napoleon said cheerfully, “I’m ready to go, any time you feel like letting me out of this cell.”

“I can’t,” said Illya.

Napoleon blinked. “You...can’t?”

Illya actually looked a little sheepish. “As I was on my way to the rendezvous point,” he said, “I, too, ran into some...difficulties. The men who caught me relieved me of all my gear, but I managed to escape before they could lock me in a cell.”

“Ah,” said Napoleon.

“However,” said Illya, “I have neither my lockpicks nor the key to your cell, and the courier is due at the rendezvous point in,” – he checked his watch – “six minutes.”

Napoleon sighed resignedly. “Well, there’s no help for it, I suppose.” He got to his feet, wincing slightly at the stiffness in his joints. “Take the microdot and get it to the courier first, then come back and get me.”

“Precisely what I was thinking.” Illya nodded. “And don’t worry, I don’t actually plan to leave you locked in there.” His lips twitched slightly. “As tempting as it may be.”

Napoleon grinned at his partner as he came over to the cell door. He pursed his lips, trying to work the little glass capsule in his false tooth out with his tongue, but it remained stubbornly wedged in place.

“Ah,” said Illya, watching him. “The false tooth?”

Napoleon grunted distractedly in assent, still working on the capsule, which stubbornly refused to budge. He’d probably wedged it in a little too tightly. Damn it.

“Just a sec,” he muttered, holding up one finger.

“Oh, for – ” Illya scowled at him. “Come here.”

“Mm?”

Illya impatiently motioned Napoleon to come closer to the door. Napoleon obediently shuffled closer, until his face was pressed up against the bars of the door, each hand wrapped around one of the bars.

“Open your mouth,” instructed Illya.

“Mm? – _MMMHH?!_ ” 

Illya sealed his mouth over Napoleon’s parted lips, effectively swallowing his partner’s startled yelp. His tongue slipped into Napoleon’s mouth, probing. Napoleon let slip an embarrassingly unmanly squeak. Illya’s tongue slid against his. Reflexively, Napoleon curled his tongue around it. Illya froze, making a soft sound of surprise, then succumbed, his tongue pushing back against Napoleon’s as Napoleon tilted his head, trying to get a better angle. Illya’s hands came up to grip the bars of the cell, knuckles white.

Napoleon’s hands, without any conscious instruction, crept through the gaps in the bars to clutch frantically at his partner’s crisp shirt, pulling him even closer. Dimly, through the unexpected haze of lust that had assailed him, he felt the capsule pop free from his false tooth. He ignored that unimportant detail and moaned fervently into Illya’s mouth.

With what appeared to be a heroic amount of effort, Illya wrenched himself backward, separating himself from Napoleon. They stared at each other in shock, eyes wild, breathing hard. Illya’s shirt was hopelessly rumpled where Napoleon had been gripping it, his lips reddened and wet. Napoleon swallowed convulsively. Illya stared at him dazedly.

“Uh,” Napoleon said awkwardly. He licked his lips. His partner made a soft, desperate sound, then turned away and cleared his throat.

Illya ducked his head and spat into his palm. They both stared at the tiny glass capsule on Illya’s palm, the microdot still safely ensconced inside. There was a long, awkward silence.

“I’ll, er.” Illya withdrew a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and carefully tucked the capsule into it, gaze flitting everywhere but at Napoleon, “Bring this to the courier.”

“Yeah,” Napoleon’s voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat and regrouped. “Yeah, you do that.”

Illya withdrew silently. Napoleon staggered back across the cell and collapsed on the stone bench he’d been perched on before his partner had shown up and blithely walked off with both the microdot and a few of Napoleon’s perceptions about himself – and his partner – at the same time, because _why not_. And his life had been so simple just this morning.

He stared down mournfully at his lap. He was still half-hard. Good thing Illya had been too preoccupied to notice _that_ – he’d looked at least as disturbed by the whole thing as Napoleon had felt. He tried to think about something else. He thought about his date last week, with the very lovely nurse Veronica from U.N.C.L.E. Medical. His erection started to subside.

Wait, no, _that_ wasn’t right.

His thoughts wandered back to his partner. He considered how Illya had tasted just now. His cock twitched. _No! **That** wasn’t right either!_

“God _damn_ it, Illya,” he muttered, dropping his head into his hands.

 

 

2.

“You’d think,” Napoleon said conversationally, “we’d have learnt not to walk into these traps by now.” He tugged experimentally on the rusted metal cuffs around his wrists which restrained him against the cold, damp wall in an upright position with his hands at shoulder level. His ankles were cuffed as well. They seemed to be in a dungeon of some sort, dark and cool, the walls and ceiling made of rough stone. Napoleon sighed. _How medieval_.

His partner was chained next to him in a similar fashion, close enough that his left hand was brushing Napoleon’s right. Illya looked disgruntled. He was keenly eyeing a small key that was hanging from a nail that had been driven into the wall, a few inches from his head.

“Can you reach it?” Napoleon asked hopefully.

“Hm,” said Illya. He leaned over as far as he could toward the key, eyes intent. His lips only brushed the keyring on his first try, but on his second try, he just managed to grab the keyring between his teeth, lifting it carefully off the nail. He paused for a moment, shifting the key between his teeth, trying to get it at the correct angle.

Illya turned his head toward his cuffed wrist, tilting his head to try to fit the key into the keyhole. It wouldn’t go in. Frowning, he tried again, but it clearly wasn’t the right key. He eyed Napoleon’s cuffs doubtfully. “Maybe it’s for yours,” he said indistinctly around the key in his mouth.

Napoleon shrugged. “Can’t hurt to try,” he agreed.

Illya leaned over toward Napoleon, offering him the key. Napoleon blinked, looked at the pale, smooth arch of Illya’s neck and his full lips pressed against the key, gulped, and leaned forward to take the key from Illya.

He managed to get the end of the key in his mouth, then his lips brushed Illya’s. They both started, and Illya released the key before Napoleon had gotten a good grip on it. The clink of the key falling to the ground was deafening in the otherwise silent room.

They both stared down at the key.

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me,” groaned Napoleon.

Illya glared over at him and made no reply. There was just the barest hint of embarrassment in his expression.

“Did you ever play those games in high school,” began Napoleon, “y’know, the ones where you pass a – oh, I don’t know, a stick of chocolate – from person to person – ” he trailed off at Illya’s blank expression. “I guess not.”

“I imagine you excelled at those games,” remarked Illya, looking faintly amused.

Napoleon’s expression grew dreamy. “I almost kissed a really cute girl that way once.”

Illya snorted. “Why am I not surprised.”

Napoleon grinned. His smile faded, though, when he couldn’t help but realize that none of the women he’d ever kissed had given him the same flutter he’d gotten low in his belly just now, when his lips had brushed Illya’s. He was starting to worry about himself a little.

Illya, although talented at many things, had thankfully not yet acquired the skill of mind-reading and was therefore happily oblivious to the dangerous turn Napoleon’s thoughts had taken. Illya was frowning and poking at the key on the ground with the toe of his shoe, but had no way to actually get the key from his foot into his hand. Or his mouth. Thank goodness for small mercies, Napoleon thought parenthetically.

They escaped in their usual way, in the end, which was by waiting for their captors to arrive to interrogate them, overpower said captors and fight their way out of the building. Napoleon had a little excess energy to work off, anyway, so this method of escape was not entirely unwelcome.

He rather thought Illya felt the same way about it, given the unrestrained glee with which his partner was hitting all the goons they encountered – but it was hard to tell with Illya, as he tended to be enthusiastic about these things regardless. Napoleon smiled fondly as Illya punched a thug full-on in the face.

When it was all over, he draped a companionable arm about Illya’s shoulders as they strolled out of the building toward their pickup location. And if Napoleon was a little more conscious than usual of Illya’s warmth by his side as they walked, at least Illya was blissfully unaware of it.

 

 

3.

Illya leapt over the subway turnstile and dashed down the platform, Napoleon right behind him, and they made it onto the train just as the doors were closing. Illya breathed a sigh of relief. The thugs chasing them probably wouldn’t make it onto the train.

The subway doors were halfway closed before they stopped, then opened again. Illya swore under his breath and started pushing his way deeper into the crowded subway car, muttering apologies to the people around him, who shot him dirty looks as they were pushed aside. Napoleon followed his partner, smiling apologetically at the irritated New Yorkers around them.

The subway doors finally closed and the train started moving. Illya let out a breath, then jumped as Napoleon’s lips brushed his ear. “Those goons probably got onto a different subway car,” Napoleon murmured. “But they’re likely to check the rest of the train for us. We should get off at the next stop, if they don’t.”

“I know that,” Illya murmured back, irritably shooing Napoleon away from his ear. He pushed his way to one corner of the subway car, where they would have a good view of the entire car. The door at the other end of the car, which connected their car to the next one, slid open then, and two of the goons who’d been after them entered the crowded car, looking around. “Damn,” Napoleon muttered softly.

The couple sitting in the two corner seats right next to where they were standing stood up then and moved toward the doors, momentarily blocking their view of the thugs. Illya hurriedly shoved Napoleon into one of the seats, then sat down in the other seat himself.

“Keep your head down,” he hissed to Napoleon. “Maybe they won’t see us.”

“And if they do?” Napoleon whispered back, but he ducked his head. With all the people standing around them in the crowded car, they’d only be spotted if the thugs walked right by them, but with their luck, that was exactly what would happen.

“I had not thought of a plan for that yet,” Illya admitted, and Napoleon laughed softly. He glanced around, still keeping his head low, then carefully plucked a dark-colored scarf out from the large Bloomingdale’s shopping bag the lady standing in front of them had left on the floor. Shaking it out, he reached over and wrapped it over Illya’s bright blond head, grinning. “To hide your hair,” he explained in a cheerful undertone.

The thugs were pushing their way through the crowd in the subway car, heedless of the nasty looks being directed their way. They were about halfway to Illya and Napoleon’s seats. “We should pretend to be a couple,” hissed Napoleon, leaning into Illya.

“ _What?!_ ”

“They’re looking for two men, not a man and a woman!”

“In case you hadn’t realized, _neither of us look anything like a woman,_ ” Illya snapped. “Those men may be stupid, but they’re not _blind_. Think of a better idea!”

Napoleon leaned in, lips slightly parted, his gaze on Illya’s mouth and an intent look on his face, and – oh. Oh _no_. Illya could see _exactly_ where this was headed, and it was Not Good.

The thing was, he liked his very male, very heterosexual partner a lot. Much more than was appropriate to like one’s partner and best friend. That first time they’d kissed, back when he’d been trying to get that cursed microdot from where Napoleon had hidden it in his false tooth – and Illya had _honestly_ had no ulterior motives for that kiss, then – had been a revelation. He’d been able to convince himself that his attraction to Napoleon had been simply the brotherly affection one felt for a partner right up to the point Napoleon’s tongue had touched his, sending a jolt through his very core, and he’d thought, _I want him_. And _that_ Pandora’s Box, now wide open, wasn’t something he was going to be able to shut away again.

And as if it wasn’t difficult enough to keep his feelings hidden, as they’d grown closer in the past months, Napoleon had started to become much more tactile with him, touching Illya’s arm if he wanted his attention, or throwing his arm over Illya’s shoulder in a friendly manner.

Illya prided himself on having a pretty good poker face, and had so far managed to not let on how Napoleon’s frequent _touching_ was affecting him. However, he wasn’t quite so sure his willpower was up to the task of maintaining this hands-off approach if Napoleon was going to actually start _kissing_ him on a regular basis.

Certain parts of his body, anyway, tended to take on a life of their own when Napoleon entered the equation, and if his partner persisted with this little charade, at least _one_ of those body parts was going to remind Napoleon, and quite emphatically too, that Illya in _no way_ resembled a woman.

Anyway, they were in _public_ , surely Napoleon wouldn’t –

–  Napoleon’s lips touched his, and Illya drew in a sharp breath. Napoleon took the opportunity to slip his tongue through parted lips, pressing even closer to Illya. This was madness, Illya thought hysterically, the thugs were going to discover them any moment now. His hand crept toward the gun in his shoulder holster, then Napoleon did something with his tongue that made Illya – embarrassingly – groan aloud. The hand that had been going for his gun detoured to clutch at Napoleon’s shoulder instead. Napoleon whined softly, his entire body a line of burning heat along Illya’s side. Illya’s head was spinning. His eyes slid shut.

They had to break the kiss eventually to breathe, and as Napoleon drew back slightly, leaning his forehead against Illya’s, both of them gulping in deep breaths of air, Illya opened his eyes just in time to see the back of one of the thugs disappearing through the door next to him, into the next subway car. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Illya gaping at the door.

Napoleon was grinning at him jubilantly, his lips still wet and kiss-swollen. “Told you,” he whispered.

Illya scowled at him half-heartedly. It was, somehow, a little more difficult than usual to muster up his normal level of irritability. Suddenly recalling that they were in public, he jerked away from Napoleon and darted a furtive glance around them, worried about how people would react to what they’d done – but he was met with exactly zero reaction, as the blasé New Yorkers standing around them, noses buried in their newspapers or busy chatting with their friends, didn’t even seem to have noticed that anything out of the ordinary had happened. He breathed a small sigh of relief. Next to him, his partner was laughing silently, his shoulders shaking.

The train pulled into the next station and came to a stop. The doors slid open. Illya snatched the scarf off his head, shoved it back into the shopping bag on the floor, grabbed Napoleon’s wrist and dragged his partner out of the train with him, biting his lip to suppress a smile at Napoleon’s surprised yelp.

 

 

4.

Napoleon wasn’t happy about today’s mission.

They were being sent to retrieve some stolen government computer codes. That, in itself, wasn’t a problem.

The problem was that to get close enough to the target to steal the codes, Illya was being sent in to seduce him.

Their target was, according to Research, homosexual with a predilection for blonds. _How convenient_ , Napoleon thought sourly. It wasn’t like he had any desire at all to do this kind of mission himself, but he was starting to think that he’d find it infinitely preferable to dye his own hair blond and seduce the damned target rather than sit by and watch _Illya_ do it. Just thinking about this mission was making him feel cranky and out-of-sorts, and he didn’t really want to examine why.

Illya accepted the assignment with his usual pragmatism. “It’s just another assignment,” he told Napoleon, shrugging. “Like the ones you’ve done with women many times before.”

“Not _that_ many times,” protested Napoleon. _And those were different_ , he wanted to say, but he knew Illya would call him out on _that_ hypocrisy right away, so he remained silent, pondering. This sudden, fierce possessiveness of his partner was making him feel...odd, off-balance, like he was standing on ground that kept shifting beneath him.

He sighed gloomily. Illya gave him an odd look.

Resigned to his fate, Napoleon went to find himself and Illya appropriate clothes for the nightclub they were going to that evening. While the establishment in question didn’t cater exclusively to a homosexual clientele – _that_ kind of reputation would get them raided by the police in short order – it was known, in certain discreet circles, to be homosexual-friendly. He was supposed to play the role of Illya’s date who ditched him at the club, to make the target think that Illya was both gay and available. Then after Illya had been noticed – and he had no doubt that his gorgeous partner _would_ be noticed – Napoleon was supposed to just waltz off and play backup, leaving Illya to the target’s tender mercies, and wouldn’t _that_ be fun. He scowled to himself.

Later that evening, Napoleon coaxed Illya into a pair of black jeans so tight that they looked painted on, took one look at Illya’s ass in those jeans and realized despairingly that his partner would be walking around _in public_ looking like that, then promptly tried to coax Illya back out of the jeans. Illya, however, was having none of it. He informed Napoleon that he’d already given in to Napoleon’s choice of clothing and he didn’t get a do-over. Napoleon groaned, scrubbed his hands over his face and mentally prepared himself for a very long evening.

They got to the club close to midnight and settled themselves near the bar, keeping a watchful eye out for the target. It was Illya who finally spotted him, seated in a booth just off the dance floor, with two androgynous young men draped languidly over him.

They pushed their way through the throngs of people on the dance floor, finally ending up a few feet away from the target. Napoleon had taken Illya’s hand while they were pushing through the crowd – he was playing the role of Illya’s date, after all. Making sure they were in the target’s line of sight, he leaned in to kiss Illya, a chaste press of lips, and felt perversely annoyed when Illya just looked bored, even though that was the role they’d agreed he’d play.

“Napoleon,” murmured Illya.

“Hmm?” said Napoleon distractedly. He really didn’t like the way the target was eyeing Illya lasciviously. He didn’t like it one bit. He tightened his grip on his partner’s hand.

Illya glanced at him oddly. “Are you all right?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He still had a death grip on Illya’s fingers.

“You’re supposed to look like you’re _not_ interested in me,” Illya reminded him under his breath.

“Who’s looking like they’re interested in you,” muttered Napoleon.

“I can’t feel my fingers,” Illya said.

Napoleon sniffed and loosened his grip minutely.

“You,” hissed Illya quietly, “are supposed to leave me here, _alone_ , and go get us drinks.” He discreetly pried Napoleon’s fingers off his hand.

Napoleon obediently gave his partner a bland, disinterested smile, then turned and made his way toward the bar. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Illya move slightly nearer the target’s booth, further from the crush of gyrating bodies on the dance floor, and affect a slightly lost air. He only managed to stop himself from turning around and marching back to his partner by sheer force of will when he saw the target rise from his seat and squeeze past one of the young men in his booth to approach Illya. Left behind, the young man draped himself artistically on the seat and pouted.

 _Yeah, buddy, you and me both_ , thought Napoleon glumly.

From his seat at the bar, Napoleon watched Illya glance at the target invitingly, a small smile on his lips. He gritted his teeth through their entire conversation, not quite able to believe Illya was _smiling_ at the bastard – well, okay, he was _supposed_ to, but _still_.

His increasingly homicidal thoughts were interrupted by someone taking the empty seat next to him. “Did he ditch you?”

Napoleon looked over, startled. “What?”

The young man who’d slid into the seat next to him – the pretty one who’d been sitting with the target in his booth before he’d been summarily abandoned for Illya – stuck out a hand. “Hi. I’m Paul.”

“Napoleon,” he replied, shaking Paul’s hand.

Paul nodded over at the target and Illya standing close together, deep in conversation. “So. The handsome blond. You came here with him, didn’t you?”

“Ah. Yeah.” Napoleon did his best to look disinterested. “Well, it’s his loss.”

Paul gave him a knowing look. Apparently his disinterested look wasn’t working too well. So much for being a master spy.

“Well, if it makes you feel better, your blond is probably not going to have a very good time with Mister Lewis,” said Paul consolingly.

“Oh?” said Napoleon. “Why not?”

“Mister Lewis takes some...getting used to,” Paul said. “He likes things – rough.”

“What.” Napoleon eyed his companion in some alarm. “How rough?”

Paul shrugged. “Let’s just say that he gives me an _extremely_ generous allowance for the time I spend with him.” He glanced over at Illya and the target again. “Looks like I’m out of luck this evening, though.”

Napoleon glanced at his partner worriedly. Illya could handle himself, of course, but still...then remembering that he wasn’t actually supposed to be _staring_ , he blinked and hurriedly returned his attention to the young man sitting next to him.

Paul was eyeing him with amusement. “I was going to offer to keep you company instead, but,” – his eyes flicked toward Illya, then back to Napoleon – “I can tell you wouldn’t be interested. Cheers.” He raised his glass to Napoleon, winked saucily and disappeared into the crowd before Napoleon could formulate a reply.

 

***

 

U.N.C.L.E. had booked a room for them in a small, shabby hotel right next to the club for surveillance purposes. They’d already set their surveillance gear up in it earlier that day, although Illya had opted to forgo wearing a transmitter on his person as he’d expected to be shedding his clothes later that evening. Napoleon scowled fiercely at the thought.

Illya had, instead, brought a tiny transmitter with him in his coat pocket, which he’d promised to use to contact Napoleon if he was in trouble. How Illya defined ‘trouble’ was, however, debatable, as he tended to define anything short of lying on the ground bleeding out from a gunshot wound to a vital part of his body as a minor inconvenience.

After his conversation with Paul, Napoleon returned to the hotel room, lay down on the bed and didn’t sleep a wink. God, he hated these kinds of missions. He wasn’t sure whether to be worried or relieved that his transmitter remained stubbornly silent the entire evening.

What felt like five hours later but was actually only slightly over an hour from the time he’d returned to the hotel, the latch on the door clicked quietly. Napoleon slipped one hand under his pillow, closing it over the comforting bulk of his gun, and waited.

The door opened and Illya prowled quietly into the room, looking none the worse for wear. Napoleon uncurled his fingers from the grip of his gun and made a show of blinking awake and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Illya gave him a narrow-eyed look that told Napoleon his partner wasn’t fooled one bit by the ‘freshly-awoken-from-a-sound-sleep’ act. He meandered over to the bedroom table and deposited his gun on it.

“Well?” demanded Napoleon.

“He thought it would be amusing to try to force himself on me,” said Illya disdainfully.

Napoleon shot straight up on the bed. “ _What_?”

“So I shot him with a sleep dart,” Illya continued calmly, completely oblivious to Napoleon’s distress, “and extracted the contents of his wallet.” He dug around in his own pocket, drawing out a small stack of credit cards and some hundred-dollar bills, dumping them on the bed.

“Did he touch you?” Napoleon asked sharply.

Illya snorted derisively, then blinked when Napoleon continued staring at him. Something very like realization was dawning on his face. “No, of course not,” he said.

“Good.” Napoleon exhaled. “Paul told me that the target, ah, liked things rough, so I was worried.”

“Paul?” Illya’s eyes narrowed. “Ah. Our target’s lovely friend. I see _someone_ had a nice evening,” and he was outright _glaring_ at Napoleon now.

“What?” Napoleon glared right back. “I’ve been right here in the hotel since you left. _Worrying about you._ ”

Illya dropped his gaze first, clearing his throat and looking away, although he did look somewhat mollified. He finished digging around in his pockets and produced a crumpled piece of folded white notepaper, which he dropped on the bed along with a handful of coins.

Napoleon picked the paper up and unfolded it carefully. There was a long series of letters and numbers printed on it in neat, minute type. “The codes?”

“Mm.” Illya was already headed toward the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt and grumbling about having the target’s cologne slathered all over him. When he emerged from the bathroom after a hot shower, the lights in the room had been turned off and Napoleon was a silent, still shape on the bed, but when Illya got into bed, Napoleon wordlessly rolled over and cuddled up against him, throwing an arm over his waist. Illya smiled, drew the blanket over them both, and closed his eyes.

 

 

5.

“Illya? Illya!” Napoleon shook off the two goons holding him as best as he could with his arms bound behind his back as they tossed him into the dimly-lit cell, heedless of the door slamming behind him. He dropped to his knees beside the figure lying prone on the floor. “ _Illya?_ ”

It was almost pitch-black in the cell; the only source of illumination was the wan moonlight from the single small window on the wall furthest from where his partner was lying. Napoleon squinted worriedly down at the bound and unmoving figure.

“Mmph.” Illya sat up, frowning crankily. Napoleon quickly looked him over – from what he could see in the faint moonlight, his partner seemed unhurt, but his mouth had been taped over, which was probably why he was in, to put it delicately, a mood.

The weight that had been worry for Illya finally off his chest, Napoleon sighed at his partner in an exaggerated fashion. “You were rude to them again, weren’t you.”

Illya shot him a dirty look.

“How many times do I have to tell you, partner,” said Napoleon, affectionately teasing, “not to be rude to the nasty men who’re just waiting for an excuse to rough you up? Or, well, gag you, as the case may be.” He shuffled closer to Illya, tilting his head, looking for the end of the tape.

Illya rolled his eyes, made a muffled angry noise through the tape, then turned his head to continue glaring at Napoleon.

“Stay still,” Napoleon chided gently. “I’m trying to get this thing off you.” He leaned in, mouthing at the end of the tape. His lips brushed his partner’s cheek, his breath ghosting over Illya’s skin. Illya shivered responsively, then pretended he hadn’t. Napoleon politely didn’t comment on Illya’s reaction, although his own heart was starting to beat faster.

He managed to get the end of the tape in his mouth. Holding the corner between his teeth, he slowly peeled back the piece of tape, not wanting to hurt Illya by ripping the tape off too quickly. When he’d gotten the whole piece of tape off, he spat it onto the floor, but reluctant to move away, remained where he was, his forehead resting against Illya’s temple. Their mingled breath was warm in the space between them.

“Are you okay?” Napoleon murmured.

“Yes,” Illya replied, equally soft. He turned his head so he was facing Napoleon fully, their noses bumping.

For a moment, there was a breathless silence, apprehension and anticipation in equal measure hanging electric in the air between them. Napoleon’s heart was thumping so hard in his chest that he thought Illya could surely hear it.

Napoleon ducked his head, mouthing gently at the corner of Illya’s lips.

“What – ” Illya’s voice was hoarse, uncertain. “What are you doing?”

Napoleon paused, uncertain how to give voice to this thing – whatever it was – still new and fragile, blossoming between them.

“I...don’t know,” he admitted softly. He drew a slow breath. “Do you want me to stop?”

Illya was silent. Napoleon, uncertain, started to draw back.

“No,” Illya whispered. “Don’t – don’t stop.” He leaned forward, chasing Napoleon’s kiss, and Napoleon gladly met him halfway, parting his lips for Illya. The angle was awkward, with Illya sitting on the floor and Napoleon kneeling beside him, both of them with their arms bound behind their backs, but somehow it still felt like the most natural thing, as if every touch, every lingering look over the past few months had all been leading up to this.

Outside the cell, the moon slipped behind a small cluster of clouds, throwing the cell into darkness. Illya and Napoleon, who were otherwise occupied, neither noticed nor cared.

 

 

+1.

“So,” Napoleon said, settling into the airplane seat and buckling his seatbelt. “Care to brief me on the mission?”

Illya, seated next to Napoleon, hands folded in his lap, darted a thoughtful glance over at his partner. It was very early on a Saturday morning; he’d shown up at Napoleon’s apartment at three-thirty that morning, and when his partner had answered the door, sleepy-eyed and barefoot but thankfully alone, had informed him that they needed to catch a flight in an hour. Napoleon had nodded, motioned Illya into his apartment then disappeared into the bedroom. He’d reappeared ten minutes later, looking slightly more awake, immaculately groomed and carrying a small suitcase, and they’d headed straight for the airport.

“You didn’t ask, before now...?” said Illya, making the statement into a question. During the cab ride to the airport, then while they were waiting for their flight at the nearly-empty gate, Napoleon hadn’t asked a single question. He’d cheerfully bought them coffee and pastries for breakfast, then patiently settled in to wait for their flight. In his place, Illya would have demanded the mission brief at least half an hour ago.

Napoleon leaned back in the narrow seat, arranging himself more comfortably. He smiled over at Illya with affection, eyes crinkling. “When you say jump, partner, I jump.”

To his horror, Illya felt his cheeks grow warm. He cleared his throat.

“It’s...not a mission,” he admitted shamefacedly and eyed Napoleon with caution, not quite sure how his partner would react.

“Oh?” Now Napoleon turned in his seat to cast a curious look at Illya. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”

“I, er.” Illya stopped and cleared his throat again. “I asked Mr. Waverly to take us off the duty roster, just for this weekend, and he agreed. I thought...” he stopped again, and scowled. This was more difficult than he’d anticipated. He soldiered on determinedly.

He cast a quick glance around them and lowered his voice. “I thought that since you seemed to enjoy kissing me when we were on duty, maybe you might want to give it a try while we’re off-duty, too,” he said all in a rush.

He couldn’t quite bring himself to look at Napoleon just then, afraid of what he might – or might not – see, so he fumbled around in his pocket instead, finally taking out two folded pieces of paper.

“If the idea doesn’t hold any appeal for you,” Illya continued quickly, “I have two rooms booked at the hotel, and I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding...female companionship. I hear the beach is very nice this time of year as well.” He forced himself to look up, then, and thrust the papers at Napoleon.

Napoleon was staring at him, and there was no mistaking the intent in that gaze. He licked his lips, both hands gripping the armrests tightly as if that was the only thing stopping him from reaching for Illya. “Oh, if we weren’t in public right now...” he murmured meaningfully.

Napoleon cast a quick glance around the sparsely-occupied cabin, then unbuckled his seatbelt and hopped out of his seat. He turned a warm, mischievous smile on Illya. Illya gulped inaudibly and narrowed his eyes at his partner.

Napoleon clambered over Illya’s legs and stepped into the narrow aisle of the plane, then leaned over, his lips just brushing Illya’s ear. “Bathroom. Five minutes,” he murmured, then strode purposefully down the aisle toward the back of the plane.

What. _What?_

Four minutes later, when Napoleon had failed to regain his sanity and return to his seat, Illya unbuckled his own seatbelt, stood up and made his way to the back of the plane, feeling slightly lightheaded. Napoleon couldn’t – couldn’t possibly –

The little red light on the top of one of the two bathrooms at the rear of the plane was on, marking that one as occupied. The other one was empty. Illya knocked on the door of the occupied bathroom with his and Napoleon’s usual coded knock, feeling a little silly. He resolutely ignored the butterflies that seemed to have taken up residence in his stomach.

The door opened. Napoleon’s hand shot out, grasped Illya’s wrist and pulled him bodily into the tiny stall. Illya just managed to lock the door behind him before Napoleon’s lips were on his, warm and supple and by now, familiar, although kissing like this, without the pretense of a mission to hide behind for the first time, felt somehow more dangerous, more exhilarating, yet very _right_. His arms found their way around Napoleon’s waist, tugging him closer.

When they drew apart, both their cheeks were flushed. Napoleon was smiling at him with unrestrained delight, and Illya was pretty sure that his own expression wasn’t much better. Napoleon drew back slightly and held up one of the two pieces of paper Illya had given to him earlier, the one that held the confirmation for the second room that Illya had, in a fit of uncertainty, booked.

“I don’t think,” Napoleon said laughingly, “we’ll be needing that extra room.” He carefully tore the sheet of paper into tiny pieces and tossed them into the toilet, then flushed it. They both watched as the little pieces of paper were whisked away, then it was Illya’s turn to press Napoleon against the wall and kiss him, slow and deep, running his fingers through Napoleon’s hair.

After a few more kisses, when things were starting to proceed into more...involved territory, Illya drew back, panting.

“I am going to return to my seat,” he informed his partner, “before I lose all my resolve to wait until we reach the hotel and take you against the wall of this bathroom instead.” Napoleon’s cock jerked against Illya's thigh, and he almost _did_ lose his resolve right then and there. With a heroic effort, he pushed Napoleon back, holding him at arm’s length.

“You do realize,” Napoleon told him cheekily, undeterred in the least, “that everyone in that cabin is going to know what you were doing in here if you walk out looking like _that_.” He looked Illya up and down, and grinned.

Illya cleared his throat, patted his hair down, then looked down at the bulge in his pants and sadly realized that it wouldn’t go away until he removed himself from Napoleon’s vicinity, because the man was a public menace. He let himself out of the airplane bathroom and returned himself and the tattered shreds of his dignity to his seat.

Napoleon joined him a few minutes later, settling back into his seat demurely. Under the cover of the armrest and out of sight from their fellow travelers, he slipped his hand into Illya’s, lacing their fingers together. Illya squeezed his partner’s hand and ducked his head to hide his smile.

 

 

End.

 


End file.
